


Spirit Of Enquiry

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Sex, Casual Sex, Comfort Sex, Consent Play, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Pining, historical snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-12 18:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19579543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Crowley has always recognised Aziraphale's weakness for the more sensuous earthly delights such as food, music and alcohol - and indeed the way he takes pleasure in sharing them with Crowley - so with hindsight it really shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him when Aziraphale suggested adding sex to the list.Crowley has one problem and one problem only with this suggestion - if they're sleeping together, can he go on hiding the fact he's in love with him?





	Spirit Of Enquiry

**Author's Note:**

> No real spoilers, but if you haven't watched the show the end won't make much sense.

Aziraphale was rather enjoying the Renaissance. Against his better judgement he'd let Crowley talk him into relocating to Italy for a while, and the weather and the food and the burgeoning of art had been an assault on the senses that left him half-dazed with pleasure. He'd been dispensing celestial inspiration left right and centre, and thoroughly enjoying the frescoes and ceilings and sculptures that appeared as a result. Yes, occasionally he would notice little details that he suspected had more to do with Crowley's influence than his - the amount of naked body parts for one thing - but he turned a blind eye to these. They were beautifully executed, after all.

The other thing there appeared to be a lot of was fornication, and Aziraphale found himself wondering if it was the weather. There just seemed to be a lot more of it going on than in the rainy Britain they'd left behind, or perhaps it was just more on display. It was decidedly more enthusiastic. 

Strolling through a walled garden one morning, they came across a couple in an arbour, more entwined than the climbing roses surrounding them and clearly oblivious to the fact they were under observation.

Angel and demon stopped in their tracks for a moment and regarded the pair with interest before moving discreetly onwards. Around the corner was another bench, this one conveniently unoccupied, and they took possession at once.

Aziraphale seemed a little fidgety, and Crowley wondered if it was embarrassment at having disturbed the couple in their antics. On the grounds it was practically in his job description, he decided to make it worse.

"They were certainly going at it, weren't they?” he said conversationally. “Do you think it's something in the water?"

"I was thinking perhaps the weather," Aziraphale replied, to Crowley's surprise having apparently given it serious thought. And then, after the briefest hesitation: "Would you like to try it?"

Crowley went still. Aziraphale couldn't be offering what it sounded like he was offering - could he? His eyes flicked sideways, taking in the angel's profile. Aziraphale was facing firmly forwards, hands fussing in his lap. 

"Try...what exactly?" Crowley aimed for nonchalance and missed by a mile, wincing slightly as the pitch of his voice went several octaves higher than he'd intended.

"Well. They seem to like it, don't they? The humans, I mean. And they've been right about other things. Candied peel. Sugared almonds. Syllabub."

"Are you saying you see sex as just another form of dessert?" Crowley grinned slowly in disbelief. A blush spread over Aziraphale's cheek, and he gave a slight shrug. 

"Well, an - indulgence, perhaps. Something that would be – pleasurable, for its own sake."

"With no nutritional value but possibly involving whipped cream?" Crowley added and Aziraphale huffed at him.

"Well if you don't want to we don't have to. It was only a suggestion."

"I didn't say that." Crowley frowned, trying to muster his scattered thoughts. It wasn't that he didn't want to. He did, very much, and over the years had wasted a not inconsiderable amount of time imagining exactly that. It was just - to be offered it in such a casual manner suggested it was something of little consequence to Aziraphale, just one more earthly pleasure to be explored for its charming possibilities. While for Crowley – well. What had begun as a reluctant fondness for the angel had blossomed over the centuries into an even more reluctant and utterly hopeless love for him, and to be so abruptly offered the opportunity to lie with him had thrown Crowley into confusion. 

To accept under these circumstances - how much would that hurt? To on the face of it get everything he'd ever wanted, but to know his feelings weren't returned – to know that Aziraphale, in fact, remained oblivious to the existence of them in the first place? It would be beautiful agony, both sheer heaven and absolute hell, and the irony wasn't lost on him.

"Come on then." Crowley stood up abruptly and held out his hand.

Aziraphale looked at it in surprise, and Crowley waggled his fingers impatiently. 

"Oh." Aziraphale cautiously placed his hand into Crowley's and let the demon draw him to his feet. "Are we - you mean to - now?"

"No time like the present," said Crowley with a brittle smile. "Or did you want to get drunk first?"

"No!" Aziraphale looked offended, then solicitous as he considered Crowley might want to. "Unless you would prefer - ?"

Eyes safely hidden behind smoked glass, Crowley stared at him unblinkingly, wondering if love always hurt this much for the humans or whether it was only that demons couldn't, shouldn't, weren't _supposed_ to fall in love, and that this was simply the way it had to be for him. A punishment in the form of a blessing. Or was it the other way round?

"I don't want to be drunk," he said finally, conscious that they'd now been standing silently hand in hand for several seconds, and also that it hadn't been nearly as awkward as it should have been. _I want to remember every second,_ he added, but only in the safety of his own head.

"Then should we - " Aziraphale checked himself, registering a problem. "Oh. I don't actually have a bed, as such."

Crowley smiled, this time more warmly. "I do."

\--

The villa was nestled in the olive groves above the city, with wide marble floors that were warm and dusty underfoot, and loose muslin curtains that framed the view of the valley. 

Furniture was minimal, but the pieces Crowley had acquired were ornate and artfully positioned. Aziraphale looked round with interest. Any space occupied by himself for any period of time was always swiftly cluttered with books and papers and ornaments and general items of interest that he never remembered consciously accumulating but seemed to pile up nonetheless. Minimalism was by and large something that happened to other people, but here it felt restful rather than stark.

"Would you like a drink?" Despite his determination to remain sober, now they were here Crowley felt unaccountably jittery. 

"If you're having one?" Aziraphale agreed politely. Crowley poured them out two goblets of wine the colour of watered honey, perfectly chilled despite the fact the decanter had been standing around in the Mediterranean heat. 

"Here's to - " Crowley faltered. 

"How about - the spirit of enquiry?" Aziraphale suggested. 

Crowley raised his glass. "I'll drink to that. Well then. Bottoms up, as the saying goes."

Aziraphale promptly choked on the first mouthful. "There's no need to be lewd," he complained.

"Who's being lewd?" Crowley asked innocently. "Anyway, I rather thought that was the point."

"Hmmn." Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look, but he brightened as Crowley lead him into the adjoining room. A massive claw-footed bed stood against the centre of one wall with a beautifully embroidered cover and gleaming white linen. The sunlight here was pleasantly dimmed through a swathe of flowering creeper hanging across the window and there was a faint scent of roses.

"Do you - " Aziraphale suddenly sounded unsure. "Do you bring other people here?"

"No?" Crowley turned to him in surprise. "No, never. Hardly likely to, am I?"

"Well, I don't know, you might. You're a demon. Seduction and temptation - it's supposed to be what you do."

Crowley's mouth dropped open slightly. "I, er - well, yes. I mean. Tempting people into seducing each other, certainly, that's a thing, thing I do. Regularly. Yes. Absolutely." 

"But not by - seducing anyone yourself?" Aziraphale clarified. "Hands-on, as it were?"

Crowley suffered a moment of alarm as he wondered if Aziraphale had been expecting him to have a certain level of experience here. But he didn't think he'd imagined the note of hope in Aziraphale's voice just then.

"No. Never," he said honestly, and experienced a wave of relief as Aziraphale's expression cleared and he beamed at him. 

"Well. That's - that's alright then. We can explore things together?"

"Yes." Crowley set his drink on a side table then slowly took off his glasses and put them down beside it. It somehow felt more like undressing than removing his clothes. He realised that aside from the occasional trip Downstairs, Aziraphale was the only person to have seen his real eyes in over a century, and he’d become all too accustomed to hiding their yellow glare. But Aziraphale had never so much as flinched at their appearance, even in the beginning when they barely knew each other, and it was one of the things Crowley most valued about him.

"You're not having second thoughts?" Aziraphale's voice was soft and a lot closer than he was expecting, and Crowley realised he'd been standing there lost in reverie for some time. "It's alright if you are my dear. We don't have to do this, it was only a silly whim."

Crowley swallowed what felt like knives. The casual endearment followed so quickly by further evidence that this meant nothing more to Aziraphale than an afternoon of diverting physical activity felt like being kissed and then punched in quick succession.

He turned and reached out in the same movement, catching Aziraphale's tiny startled gasp as he embraced him and kissed him all in one blur of speed.

The force of Crowley's kiss, backed up as it was by several millennia of pent-up longing, appeared to reassure Aziraphale that second thoughts were the last thing on his mind. 

He kissed back, returning Crowley's intensity with enthusiasm. The first bruising moments gradually softened into something more exploratory until they finally broke off, staring at each other in mutually breathless appreciation.

"Oh," murmured Aziraphale. "My."

Wordlessly, Crowley leaned in and kissed the shy smile from his lips. Having been given permission to do this, he was now firmly of the opinion that he wasn't going to stop again until he had to.

He buried his fingers in Aziraphale's hair, cradling his head and pulling him closer. Aziraphale made a quiet noise in his throat, mouth too occupied to moan, his hands reaching in turn to map the shape of Crowley's body, fingers tracing his shoulders, spine, hips. Nothing lower, not yet, but the potential of this in the near future was enough to make Crowley remember it wasn't only kissing Aziraphale had signed up for here.

"Shall we?" he managed to get out, nodding towards the bed. The covers were now drawn back and Crowley had a moment of disorientation. He was fairly sure he hadn't done that. 

"I rather think we should." It was the touch of embarrassed satisfaction on Aziraphale's face that made Crowley realise who’d miracled back the bedclothes, and something of the lingering sharpness eased in his heart. Aziraphale might not love him back, at least not in the same way, but he at least appeared to genuinely want him, and that was a good start, surely?

They each removed their own clothing, rather than attempt to undress each other. Aziraphale let his loose robe fall to the bed and divested himself of his undergarments, watching Crowley strip next to him. Crowley's clothing seemed to involve a lot of complicated buckles and studs, but it proved as easy to remove as Aziraphale's, mainly because he needed it to be.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, naked and blushing slightly as he looked up at Crowley who was standing proudly before him in more ways than one.

Crowley though, was having another moment of self-doubt. He looked down at himself and frowned. "Would you prefer me otherwise?” he offered. “I mean. I could be anything you wanted. Any _one_. I could be a woman?" 

Aziraphale looked startled. "I don't think _that_ will be necessary." He gave Crowley what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "I like you entirely as you are."

Relieved, Crowley slapped his stomach. "Body of a racing snake." He smirked. "Almost literally." 

"Well, I'm not sure what that makes me then," murmured Aziraphale, resting a hand on the altogether softer lines of his own. Crowley's grin deepened, and he swaggered closer to the bed until he was standing over him in predatory fashion.

"Lunch."

\--

After the success of what might be termed the first experiment, Crowley was delighted to discover Aziraphale was keen to repeat the exercise. To Crowley's growing amusement he did indeed seem to treat it as a dessert course, and so frequently it would be after their extended lunches, suppers and occasionally breakfasts that Aziraphale would look at him with that shy intensity of his and ask if perhaps Crowley was in the mood for a little something else?

Crowley accepted, always and immediately. He'd worried it would make things complicated between them, but Aziraphale was scrupulous in never mentioning what went on in between times, so much so that even in the most heated exchanges they never used the more carnal element of their friendship against each other.

Agreeing to disagree on many things as they did, genuine arguments were rare but when they did happen they were so ferocious it could lead to them spending a century or so apart to calm down. The first time this happened after they’d starting sleeping together, Aziraphale had departed Italy in a huff, declaring he was returning to London.

It had been almost fifty years before Crowley caught up with him again, and to his relief Aziraphale proved willing to take up again exactly as they had left off, in all areas of their relationship. 

He'd missed this, Crowley thought, once their first flush of passion was spent and they were lying sprawled in a protective nest of wings and blankets in the upstairs room of Aziraphale's new abode. The warmth of the angel's skin against his, the scent of him, the taste of him. All their couplings had been like this, sensuous and lingering, drawing out the pleasure and then lying for hours in the comfortable orbit of the other. 

Crowley liked to make out he was indulging Aziraphale's penchant for snuggling under protest, but in reality he wouldn't have swapped these moments for the world. For a few all too brief hours each time he could pretend that he was loved in return, and for a while afterwards his existence as one of the Fallen seemed a little less harsh.

\--

Crowley tended to avoid Hell if at all possible; it was by definition an extremely unpleasant place to be, but spending so much time in the human world tended to magnify the worst of it whenever he was summoned to give account of himself. The jarring noise, the oppressive atmosphere, the overcrowded, stinking halls all combined to leave him on edge and angry with his fate all over again. He would have liked to feel a sense of unity with his demon brethren, a shared resentment at their shared punishment, but the reality was he hated them all too much to care. 

The only being he felt any kinship with any more was Aziraphale, and in his heart of hearts he suspected that too was one sided. Aziraphale could never love him back. An angel, love a demon? It was unthinkable, and yet Crowley persisted in thinking it. It dogged his waking thoughts and slithered through his dreams, far more of a torture in its way than any construct of Hell. And it wasn't the thought that Aziraphale didn't love him back that hurt either, it was the tiny insidious sliver of hope that one day he might. 

_Abandon hope all ye who enter her_ read the sign above the doorway. It should have said 'here', but some anonymous demon with a schoolboy's sense of humour had stolen the E several centuries ago. (It had had the schoolboy's leg too, but the less said about that the better.) 

Crowley stalked beneath the archway in a foul mood. Summoned with no recourse to decline, he had spent the equivalent of three months in a queue waiting to be dealt with. He knew from bitter experience that if he complained the queue would immediately double in length, so he'd bitten his tongue and just hissed quietly to himself, running over the list of things he (and in some cases Aziraphale, but they didn't need to know that) had done since his last accounting.

"Crowley." 

The voice came from behind him and he spun irritably, having been quite sure there'd been no-one there a moment ago.

"Hastur." He managed to keep the revulsion off his face but not quite out of his voice, and Hastur pushed himself away from the wall he'd been slumped against, lunging towards Crowley with barely restrained animosity.

"That's Duke Hastur to you."

Crowley gave him a tight smile, keeping a lid on all the responses that immediately wanted to spill from his lips and instead giving a mocking bow. Hastur looked mollified, and Crowley reflected it was probably just as well that the finer points of sarcasm were lost on him.

"In there." Hastur gestured for Crowley to precede him through a doorway. Crowley entered warily. He'd been checking in down here for millennia, and this was not the usual order of things. Normally he'd reel off a list of his recent achievements to a room of jeering demons, get commended, or more usually criticised, receive a list of things he should be concentrating on next, and dismissed again. It was unpleasant, but the worst that could be said for it was the time it took him to get the smell of sulphur out of his suit again afterwards.

This felt different, and he was on his guard. Even so, he wasn't prepared for what happened next. The door slammed behind him - with Hastur firmly still on the other side of it - and in the next second the floor beneath him simply ceased to exist and he was falling. 

The air rushed past him, as did the enclosing rock walls. Lights flickered in crevices, not enough to see by but just enough to show him how fast he was falling.

The initial alarm was briefly replaced by confusion - however hard he hit the ground it could hardly kill him, particularly down here. It depended what he landed in, of course. Last time - last time it had been a lake of burning sulphur. 

The memory of the very worst moments of his existence, kept carefully buried beneath layers of deliberate denial, avoidance and distraction, were abruptly slammed back to the forefront of his consciousness by the sheer motion of falling. An agonised cry burst from his lips, as past mixed up with present mixed up with future, but before he could gather his thoughts into any kind of order, and remember, for instance, that he had _wings_ , the ground leapt up to meet him and the breath was slammed from his body.

Technically Crowley didn’t need to breathe, but when you’d been doing it for several centuries it was a hard habit to break.

For a long moment he could do nothing but lie where he’d fallen, shaking and vulnerable. His wings, half spread from the moment he’d started to think maybe he could stop the headlong plunge after all, were crumpled beneath him, disarrayed, but not actually broken. Nothing was broken in fact, and as that filtered through to the bruised corners of his mind, he pulled himself upright, braced for whatever might come next.

“Hello Crowley.”

Beelzebub slouched into view, sounding disinterested to the point of boredom.

Crowley stared. “What was all that about?” he demanded, keeping his voice steady with an immense effort of will. 

“Punishment.”

“What for?”

Beelzebub shrugged.

“But I haven’t done anything!” _Have I?_ Crowley wondered, in a sudden panic. Technically there were any number of infringements that Hell might take exception to if uncovered, but Beelzebub’s offhand demeanour was confusing him.

“What’s that got to do with anything? This is Hell.”

“But – but that’s not fair!”

“Hell, remember? It’zz not meant to be fair. Kind've the whole point.”

Crowley tried to muster his thoughts. He was battered and disoriented from the physical impact, and more shaken than he cared to admit from the psychological one, but above all he was increasingly angry.

"You mean to say you put me through that for no reason at all? It was just - _random malice_?"

"Today'zz lucky winner," Beelzebub agreed, with supreme indifference. 

"So - I can go?" Crowley ventured, after a second's further thought. "If I'm not actually being disciplined _for_ anything?"

"Correct. Although - " Beelzebub gave him a sharp look. "It never hurts to re-evaluate your efforts Crowley. On the other hand, slacking in your duties can hurt very much, in a variety of entertaining ways."

Given implicit permission to depart, Crowley hurled himself back out of Hell without consciously thinking about the destination, only knowing he had to get away. 

He was furious, both with the sheer injustice of Hell's oh-so effective method of torture and with himself. He cared nothing for Hell, but part of him still wanted to earn their favour, and it made him feel like a cringing dog. The favour of Hell, the attention of Hell, neither of these things were good things, but they were better than Hell's displeasure and Crowley had just been forcibly reminded of exactly how Awful that could be. And that had been just random cruelty. If they’d had a genuine grievance with him...

He'd intended to go back to his flat, needing to be alone to recover from what he'd just been through, but all he could muster in terms of directional intent was _home_ and _safe_ and to his surprise he materialised not in his empty apartment but in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. He must have got distracted. 

Aziraphale looked round in surprise at having a spluttering demon unexpectedly appear out of nowhere. Crowley was spitting feathers, both figuratively and literally. Aziraphale reached over to pluck one from his suit jacket and Crowley hissed at the unexpected contact.

Aziraphale merely raised an admonishing eyebrow but Crowley was beside himself, uncomfortable and angry and wanting to lash out.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Crowley? Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked concernedly. “Where have you been?” 

“Hell.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic wince. “Dear. Was it horrid?” 

Crowley gaped at him, feeling that ‘horrid’ missed the mark by several thousand miles.

"What do you think?” he snarled. “No, actually, don’t bother. You don't know what it's like. You can’t."

"No," agreed Aziraphale quietly. "I accept that."

"They can do what they like to me. And I'm supposed to _deserve_ it," Crowley spat.

Aziraphale's lips tightened, wanting to offer comfort but afraid of sounding patronising and Crowley misread his silence as tacit approval. He stalked forwards, face taut with frustration and rage.

"Maybe I should do something to deserve it. Commit an atrocity or two. How would you like that?"

"Well those trousers are fairly atrocious," Aziraphale murmured, trying to lighten the mood. 

"You think this is a joke? Maybe I'll - I'll - " Crowley grasped vainly for something suitably awful, conscious all the while of Aziraphale just standing there watching him calmly. He wanted to ruffle him, shake him, jolt him out of his placid acceptance. "Maybe I'll ravish you. Seems reasonably demonic, don't you think? Violating an angel?"

Now Crowley would sooner have cut off his own arm than hurt Aziraphale, but his mouth was about the only part of him he wasn't in control of and all he'd really wanted was a reaction. 

The one he got wasn't entirely the one he'd expected.

Aziraphale's eyes flickered up and down the length of his body, and his lips pursed slightly. "Well. I'm sure if you were determined to do something so - dastardly - I would have little hope of defending my honour."

Crowley swallowed an entirely unexpected urge to laugh. Although he was still boiling with restless energy, his resentment had abruptly disappeared to be replaced with a burning desire. In all the times they'd lain together it had always, always been Aziraphale who'd initiated things, Crowley wanting it too much to trust himself, afraid of showing his hand, afraid of frightening Aziraphale away if he displayed too much interest. 

The thought that he could press for what he wanted - the thought, more dangerously, that Aziraphale might _like_ that - was intoxicating. 

He stalked forward, noting with satisfaction that Aziraphale held his ground. "Run away, angel. While you still can."

"The might of Heaven does not bow before the iniquity of the Pit," said Aziraphale tartly, but there was a definite twinkle of amusement in his eyes now, sensing the shift in Crowley's mood like a change in the weather.

"Oh, you'll do more than bow," Crowley drawled. "I'll have you on your knees."

Aziraphale moistened his lips as Crowley pushed his face up close. 

Despite his threats Crowley hadn't actually touched him yet but somehow it felt like they were pressed together from lip to hip.

"Last chance," Crowley growled.

"Do your worst." It was barely louder than a breath, but it was certainly more invitation than defiance, and Crowley finally let himself go. In the blink of an eye he had Aziraphale pinned to the wall, mouth crushed against his lips and leaving the angel in no doubt as to the state of his need. 

The way Aziraphale kissed him back dispelled any lingering doubts Crowley might have been suffering and he dragged Aziraphale to bed, none too gently. 

His own clothes he discarded with a thought, but Aziraphale’s he tore at, rending zips and buttons to expose his body. He kissed him again, hard and desperate, before burying his face in the nape of Aziraphale’s neck to bite down on warm flesh.

The noise Aziraphale made was closer to animal than angel, and Crowley would have pulled back, shocked into instant apology if it weren’t for the fact Aziraphale was somehow clutching him tighter than ever, deliberately pressing Crowley’s lips more firmly against his skin.

Both naked now, Crowley rolled him over, pushing Aziraphale face down into the covers, covering him with his body and pinning his hands above his head. Aziraphale flexed his fingers, entwining them with Crowley’s and Crowley choked back something dangerously close to a sob. 

It was frantic, brutal, and a human body couldn’t have withstood it, but Aziraphale rode out Crowley's fierce passion with an expression somewhere close to angelic bliss. 

When Crowley was finally spent he collapsed against Aziraphale’s back, feeling as wrung out and shattered as if he’d once more fallen from a great height, only this time to be caught in someone’s arms.

After a while when Crowley hadn’t moved, Aziraphale carefully wriggled out from beneath him and arranged them both more comfortably under the bedclothes. Having first carefully established the demon was fast asleep, he kissed Crowley softly on the forehead. 

\--

Drained and sleepily content, Crowley woke draped over Aziraphale's chest, to the comforting sensation of Aziraphale's fingers gently carding through his hair.

"'m sorry," he murmured, too drowsy to feel properly guilty for his earlier behaviour but conscious of behaving badly, even if Aziraphale had welcomed what came after.

"Shhh." Aziraphale gentled him with soothing strokes of his hand. "Easy, my love. It's alright."

Crowley froze. "What did you call me?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Just a figure of speech dear boy."

"Oh." Crowley relaxed, closing his eyes to hide his disappointment and hoping Aziraphale would start stroking his hair again.

After a moment, he did.

\--

1984

It was now Crowley who occasionally instigated their little postprandial sessions, tentatively at first and with increasing confidence as he found that Aziraphale rarely turned him down – occasionally, yes, but always being careful to press upon Crowley the fact that just because he didn’t want to _right now,_ didn’t mean Crowley should stop asking. 

One evening, in the perennial hope that tonight might be one of those nights Aziraphale smiled and said yes, let’s, Crowley turned up at the bookshop only to find it dark and locked. 

He frowned. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale for several days, but it was unlike the angel to have gone anywhere without telling him, particularly if it meant being gone for a while. He rested his palm against the lock and felt it click open, wandering into the darkened shop mostly because the only alternative was going home again.

"Angel?"

There was no answer, but a moment later there was a crash behind him and Crowley swung round to find Aziraphale standing in the entrance, having apparently fallen against the open door.

Aziraphale was in a terrible state, clothes dishevelled and eyes red from crying. For a terrible moment Crowley thought he'd been attacked, but closer inspection suggested he was unharmed, just distraught.

"Crowley." He sounded so broken Crowley didn't so much as hesitate but gathered Aziraphale into his arms and held him close. 

Flustered by the unexpected affection, Aziraphale quivered in surprise then collapsed against him, breaking into floods of fresh tears. 

Crowley could do nothing more than hold him, so he tightened his embrace and rocked him slightly, confused and indignant that someone should have upset Aziraphale so. For all his generally open and cheerful nature, Crowley knew Aziraphale tended to hide his more melancholic moods, so to be openly weeping on his shoulder suggested events of unprecedented tragedy.

Eventually sobbing became sniffling and Aziraphale made to pull back, already regretting his loss of control. Crowley tightened his embrace and shook his head.

"Talk to me," he murmured. "What's happened?"

"Oh, just - _them_ ," said Aziraphale with unaccustomed bile. "You know. Upstairs."

"What have they done now?" Crowley bristled with impotent rage. He knew, even better than Aziraphale, how useless it was to challenge Heaven, and what the consequences could be. 

"More what they haven't done. What they refuse to do." Aziraphale pulled back, hair sticking up in distressed spikes, face blotchy with tears and Crowley felt irrationally dizzy with love for him.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Crowley protested.

"No, that's what they said. That it doesn't matter. So many people dying. This new plague."

"I suppose they see it as a punishment," Crowley said darkly. It was certainly the Church's line on it, in many areas.

"Not even that. They just see it as more souls for the Heavenly Host. They say - " Aziraphale hesitated, conscious that he was possibly giving away classified intelligence, but this was _Crowley_ , and he had to tell someone. "They say there's a war coming. "

"A war?" Crowley stared at him. "In Heaven?"

Aziraphale shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know the details. They wouldn't tell me. They said it was need to know, and that I didn't. All I wanted them to do was stop all the dying."

"The humans will figure it out," said Crowley. "They'll find a cure. They're ingenious at more than just killing."

"And yet so many will die needlessly in the meantime," said Aziraphale sadly. “Just for – loving each other.”

"Come here." Crowley drew him back into his arms and kissed the drying tears from Aziraphale's cheeks. He ran his fingers through the tangles of Aziraphale's hair until it resumed its normal levels of fluffiness, then reached further back to smooth out the feathers of his wings where they rested just beyond the visible spectrum. 

Aziraphale gave a quiet sigh, unconsciously nestling deeper into Crowley's arms in search of comfort. Crowley feathered kisses on his forehead and cheeks, smiling with surprised affection as Aziraphale turned his face up to be kissed on the lips. 

Crowley lead Aziraphale into the bedroom, meaning only to lie there and hold him for as long as he needed but Aziraphale was lifting his face to be kissed again and Crowley found his hands were moving of their own accord, undressing him slowly and reverently.

It was the first time neither of them had specifically asked the other’s permission for this, but kisses became caresses became something more, until they were moving together as one, Crowley pushing slowly, infinitely gentle and tender until Aziraphale was completely undone, gasping and shuddering beneath him in ecstasy.

Afterwards, Crowley held him long into the night, Aziraphale calmer now and thinking more strategically of how many he could save without being noticed. Crowley needed little urging to agree to help, reasoning out loud that if Heaven were in favour of so many dying then it was practically his duty to help prevent it. Aziraphale was typically preoccupied with the immediate suffering of the humans, but when he finally slept Crowley lay awake and wondered exactly what heaven wanted so many new souls _for_.

\--

2019

The world hadn’t ended, but it wasn’t over. 

In the absence of other options they’d retreated to Crowley’s flat and were lying next to each other in his bed, not quite touching. Oddly, this was the first time Aziraphale had been in it: regardless of who had previously taken the initiative they had always ended up in Aziraphale’s cosy bedroom at the bookshop. But that was gone.

"Do you - did you want me?" Aziraphale asked after a while, more awkwardly than Crowley could remember him sounding about it for centuries.

Crowley turned to look at him and half-smiled. "I didn't think you'd be in the mood." 

It had been an odd few days. Things had been said, and also not said, and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure where they stood any more. He supposed sharing the same bed wasn’t a bad start. He just wasn’t sure if he could bear pretending none of it had happened, as far as the two of them were concerned.

"I suppose this - I mean, if things don't work out, if we've guessed wrong - this might be the last night we ever spend together," Aziraphale said, looking anywhere but at Crowley.

"It'll work," said Crowley, firmly in denial that anything more could go wrong at this point. They had the prophecy. Agnes had been right about everything else, hadn’t she? If _they_ were right. 

"But if it doesn't," said Aziraphale, gently persistent. "One or both of us could die tomorrow."

Crowley's head shot up. He'd considered, of course he had, that they might not make it out alive. But somehow the possibility that only _one_ of them would survive hadn't even occurred to him, and it was so much worse than the alternatives.

"I don't want to live without you." It came out unthinkingly, too instinctive to be stopped, and Crowley could have bitten his tongue off as soon as the words were out. Aziraphale had made his thoughts on suicide quite clear over the years. It was a sin, wasn't it.

But Aziraphale didn't look cross, or distressed, or disgusted. He simply took Crowley's hand, and squeezed it.

"I don't want to go on without you, either," he said quietly. "I don't think I could."

Crowley blinked at him. Suddenly something that really should have been self-evident centuries ago became clear to him, like the sun coming out on an achingly cold day.

He lifted Aziraphale's hand to his mouth, and kissed his knuckles.

"I love you too," he said.

It was Aziraphale's turn to stare, mouth open but speechless. Crowley smiled wryly.

"I've been so conflicted, over the years. Desperate for you to say it, and convinced you never would. But I've just realised something. You don't have to say it. Because I know it anyway. I love you Aziraphale. And you love me, whether you admit it or not."

Aziraphale finally managed to close his mouth, and gave Crowley a sweetly sheepish smile. "I shouldn't dream of denying it," he said. "And I'm sorry. I should have told you a long time ago. I just never imagined that you'd welcome it."

Crowley sighed. "Yes. I always said you were an idiot."

"Well how was I supposed to know!" Aziraphale objected, then gave a helpless laugh. "Yes, alright. I suppose I should have noticed. But so should you!"

"I was afraid," Crowley confessed. "Afraid of reading into it something that wasn't there. Afraid of losing you altogether."

"You'll never lose me, Crowley. I promise." Aziraphale pulled him closer, and kissed him. "And for the record? I love you. I always have."

"Well that settles one thing then," Crowley said, when they'd finally stopped kissing each other.

"What?"

"Whatever happens, we really can't fuck up tomorrow now." 

\--


End file.
